


in love with love

by rankarana



Category: THE iDOLM@STER, The iDOLM@STER Cinderella Girls
Genre: F/F, Smut, ai harem fic, spoilers: shes not topping today :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rankarana/pseuds/rankarana
Summary: As cool and courteous as she is, Ai would admit that she may have... trouble holding herself back, sometimes, around beautiful women.And sometimes, those very same women think the very same thing about her.





	in love with love

Admitting her weaknesses is not something that comes easily or all that often to Ai, but when Rumi pulls away from her, after a kiss like that —

She’s gasping, yes.

How silly, that they’d abandon all their evening plans after something as simple as Rumi’s usual batting centre being closed for maintenance (considering Rumi’s usual organisation, Ai’s frankly surprised she wasn’t aware), and she’d be immediately dragged into the nearest possible hotel. From the look on Rumi’s face, the staff behind the curtain or the two-way mirror or however they make sure something _downright illegal_ isn’t happening certainly wouldn’t have mistaken them for two office ladies having a little early-evening pre-drinks joshikai. No, Rumi is here to fuck--

(Ai feels herself a little winded when Rumi immediately shoves her up against the wall, fumbling with the top buttons of Ai’s shirt and

\--to fuck _her._

“Aggressive, aren’t you,” Ai murmurs, and the fact Rumi mumbles a quiet, humble, but _raw_ agreement tells Ai this really is hanging over her. When Rumi bites, it’s a _special_ moment - it’s because she’s decided _yes, this is where I want to leave a mark._ That doesn’t mean Ai’s going to wear that little mark on her collarbone with pride, but she does appreciate Rumi’s pragmatism; and even she can’t deny that it feels nice to know that to Rumi, that bite _mattered._

“I didn’t realise baseball meant that much to you,” is the natural, emotionally mature response to that, then.

“Not that much.” And it’s believable, in a way; just because the dismissive way Rumi growls that out, already fighting with Ai’s belt, has _that_ much force.

“Pent up, mm?”

“Yeah.” Their ‘date’ - insofar as it can be called that - had meant to start with a visit to the batting cages for a reason, Ai supposes. Rumi knows herself well, after all, and probably wanted to work out all of that aggression before spending time with Ai alone. Is she that bad?

“Don’t touch the face,” is all she tells Rumi, and it’s enough to get the point across. The hand on her hip pulls back a little, and it rolls into a tight little fist, pressing into Ai’s side. It presses into her side a couple of times at first, as if to test the water - and when Ai doesn’t stop her, she slowly rears up her fist, and then, right in the gut--

It’s not a hard blow in the slightest, which is fine as far as Ai’s concerned. In fact, she’d rather counted on that; the last thing she’d wanted was to start staggering around a hotel room clutching her stomach.

“Come on, Rumi, make it count…” Words which Ai almost immediately regrets, because Rumi pushes hard with her forearm into Ai’s neck, forcing the back of her skull against the wall with a non-neglible _bang._ Maybe talking isn’t Ai’s best choice, right now...

“There we go.” Not that she can stop herself, and Rumi’s eyes flash up again. They’re so cold like this, and it’s hardly like Ai thinks of Rumi as the most open and warm woman she knows, but there’s an edge to them.

....oh, but there’s something so _attractive_ about Rumi when she’s angry. Ai’s well aware of that, and even though she’s normally on the _other end,_ so to speak…

As Rumi moves in to kiss her again, over the arm that’s still pinning her, Ai wonders if she could get a little more mileage out of this than she cares to admit.

* * *

 

“This is my car.”

“And?”

There’s a hundred answers to that question, but Ai has the sneaking suspicion that all of them will just end up completely embarrassing her. After all, the one thing she has over Chinatsu is that Chinatsu is a _nerd,_ and if she suddenly went off about how she isn’t going to let her hand-modified dream vintage 90s sports car smelling of sex, then _Ai_ might seem like the nerd here.

Which she most certainly is not, considering the woman on top of her, currently in the process of restraining Ai’s hands using her own tie, was going into incredibly self-indulgent detail about how much she truly _understood_ French literature prior to this.

“I don’t think I need to explain more than that.” Chinatsu snorts at this, an ugly little crinkle of the nose that doesn’t suit her at all. The tie tightens around Ai’s wrists enough now that it _would_ take a little work to get out of them, but Chinatsu’s tied them together around her front, which feels like the least effective and meaningful place to tie them. Nerd.

She really _does_ look awkward, too, as she rears up, back hitting against the roof of the car before she doubles back on herself, leaning down  so her face is against Ai’s stomach. Ultimately, she resorts to shuffling back a little on her knees, shawl falling over her face and  then being promptly pulled off herself in a way that _almost_ borders on sexy. She yanks  it from the bottom, managing to somehow get it off in one swift moment and messing up her hair in the process, throwing it right into the windscreen and _glaring_ at nothing in particular through her glasses…

Except, well, it’s Chinatsu, so it absolutely feels like she’s trying far too hard to seem cool.

Chinatsu pushes her glasses firmly back onto her nose with her free hand as Ai’s jeans begin to pop open, and the way she then almost picks up Ai’s hips to slide them down after that feels borderline _out of character_ for her. Perhaps you need to lit-crit yourself, Chinatsu.

“...actually, no, I do have a question,” Chinatsu suddenly speaks again,  raising her voice to drain out whatever contemporary city-pop tribute group have popped up on Ai’s Spotify. “From what you said earlier, do you… not actually have sex in your car?”

“No.” On top of it, yes. The hood, that’s easy to wash; but the inside, the leather upholstery, that doesn’t place so well with pussy.

“Surprising.” She says it like it’s nothing, more bothered with positioning herself between Ai’s legs. There’s not even a single comment on her underwear, and frankly Ai’s still waiting for an apology.

“Pardon?”

“I can’t see you putting this much effort into something to _not_ use it to try and seduce women who should know better.”

Oh, it’d be so easy to turn that back around on Chinatsu, except that’d imply there was concious seduction going on here, or an effort to make Chinatsu fuck her in her car, and that was absolutely not the plan. In fact, Chinatsu had been the one to insist they pull over, and--

“Move back.” It comes out like an order, Chinatsu cupping her rear, _groping_ it, even, and then  forcing her to slide backwards, _finally_ in a position to get her head between Ai’s thighs.

“I do actually like cars, you realise.”

All Chinatsu offers is looking up between her legs, a little glance of _‘yes, I know?’_ before returning to-- god, she’s actually pulling down Ai’s underwear with her teeth, and it’s _working._

It’s getting her annoyed, now, and it makes Ai want to try and grab onto Chinatsu, perhaps teach her a little bit of a lesson, but when she moves to yank on her stupidly mussed-up hair, she and her wrists suddenly realise that Chinatsu _is_ good at knots, probably because the Marquis du Sade mentioned them once and them she decided she had to learn everything about them, and all Ai can do is throw herself back against the carseat and make the best of it.

* * *

 

Parties are fun; they’ve always been fun for Ai, such are the benefits of being a handsome young woman of fairly considerable charms, but she has to admit having someone there who… for a want of a better word, _lives up to her,_ being at the party too, that’s just as fun. Especially so when that woman may be there as her somewhat non-committal plus one, and seeing her with the bored, rather pretty wife of a television executive, feeding the other woman canapés and talking about how she could never have guessed her age somehow… excites her? No, that’s wrong. It’s strange feeling, but regardless, she’s happy to see that Manami won’t be out of television work any time soon.

What she is less happy about is the afterparty; or more specifically, getting back to Manami’s apartment afterwards to suddenly find herself picked up into what can only be called a _princess carry_ and clearly taken in the direction of Manami’s bedroom. Manami may be a gentlewoman, but she’s not subtle - she’s squeezing ass through dress pants, and seems to have little issue with Ai grabbing at her chest through the _incredibly_ slutty lowcut dress that’s been distracting her all evening.

Ai wonders if she’s pouting like an impertinent little child right now, and from how Manami’s looking at her, it’d seem that way.

“Something wrong, daddy?” Manami suggests, and Ai manages to find herself with a borderline blush.

“Really? Not now. Not like… this.” The whole, you know, _being princess carried to bed by Manami_ thing. It makes those words twice as complex for Ai to hear from her as usual..

“What would you prefer instead? Darling?”

“Very Showa of you.”

“Princess?”

“No.”

“Prince?”

“...still no.”

“Haha, well…” Oh, Manami’s _revelling_ in this, isn’t she? She’s enjoying every single moment of how much she’s making Ai squirm within her arms. “...just Ai, then?”

“‘Dearest hubby’,” Ai offers along with a poke to one of those half-out breasts, because, oh no, Manami holding her like this and staring into her eyes and saying her name, now that _is_ the worst. Intersectionality chicken races with Manami rarely end well for her, but _anything_ but that.

“My wife,” Manami bats back, and Ai…

Mm.

She doesn’t have an awfully good response to that one, and considering how Manami herself looks a little taken aback at what she just said, perhaps that’s justified. Heavy words, considering… everything.

And yet, her immediate gut instinct of  telling Manami just to call her ‘Ai’ doesn’t quite manage to come out; and she just lies in Manami’s arms and lets it happen, lets herself be thrown onto the bed-- wait, hold on--

Manami’s on top of her almost immediately, bedsprings creaking from the force with which she pounces, and as if trying to hide that little moment of shared emotional uselessness she goes right for Ai’s chest. Payback, perhaps? Her broad palms fit _well_ around Ai’s chest, and it’s enough for Ai to relax a little. Communication like this is far more natural for them, and Manami understands well that when Ai thrusts her chest up into her hands, that’s a sign to proceed.

What Ai doesn’t mean, however, is for Manami to grab at the flap of her shirt, and without bothering to do anything boring like ‘undoing it’, pulls it wide open to expose Ai. At least one button goes flying across the room, she’s _sure_ of it.

“You’re paying for that,” she groans. She’d do the same to Manami’s dress, except, well, it really _is_ too nice to ruin like that; and with Manami already pulling up her bra and and burying her face in there, she has other concerns.

“Love you, Ai.”

Her-- future, someday, somehow, god what a ridiculous thing to think -- wife is a handful, Ai realises.

**Author's Note:**

> after this, ai ends up crashing a natsuki and ryo not-quite-date at a bar, and after ryo rolls her eyes and goes off to the bathroom for a second, natsuki pats ai on the back.
> 
> "what's this for, kimura?"  
> "oh, i dunno, ai. i dunno. just feel some kinship with you."  
> "haha. impossible."
> 
> anyway aimana 夫夫 energy for life


End file.
